


From Ustalav With Love

by qaftsiel



Category: Pathfinder (RPG), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Demons, F/F, Femlock, Friends to Lovers, Genderswap, Monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qaftsiel/pseuds/qaftsiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a consultant to the Sleepless detective agency, Sherlock Holmes will inevitably end up angering some evil force or another through the course of her investigations. Demons, undead, thieves' guilds, cabals of diabolical clerics-- it's all in a day's work, really. </p>
<p>Enter John Watson in a hail of arrows. With Sherlock's investigation into a serial poisoner blown open by the discovery that at least one of the Countess Caliphvaso's right hand men is a greater demon, she and John will have to escape Ustalav with their lives before they can even start to get to the bottom of the Countess' schemes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updates may be slow with this, but I promise they're coming.

            “Are you quite sure you picked the right one, Miss Holmes?”

 

            Sherlock pauses. She knows she should simply walk out, leaving the driver and his childish game behind, but four others have already played and lost, all in the name of gaining an audience with Countess Caliphvaso. She’s certain she knows which glass is the safe one, even without the aid of a detection spell... “Fine.” She stalks back to the table and sweeps up the leftmost glass, swirling the dark wine. “This one. I am certain.”

 

            Smiling, the driver lifts the remaining glass and sits back in his chair. “Let us put that to the test, then, Miss Holmes.”

 

            The rim of the glass has just touched Sherlock’s lower lip when the window over the table explodes inward. Shocked, Sherlock loses her grip on the glass as she leaps backwards reflexively. Four bluish streaks flash through the shower of glass shards and slam into the driver’s chest—Sherlock sees feathered shafts in the flickering light from the candle still upright on the table.

 

            The driver shrieks and wrenches free of the arrows and the chair, growing in height and mass before Sherlock’s very eyes. Not a trace of the podgy, weaselly driver remains—the creature before her is hulking and dreadful, its thick, spiny hide dripping with foul slime and tar. Its stink, fetid and sickly like decaying flesh, swamps the room. _“Wretched meddler!”_ it screams, flinging itself at the window.

 

            Sherlock takes advantage of the hezrou’s distraction to tuck herself behind a bookshelf in the back of the room. She thunks her head back against the wood once—shame on her for missing all the obvious signs! The way the driver moved as if unused to his own body, his odd smell, the way his pupils seemed just the slightest bit oblong... obvious! Obvious!

 

            She looks out from behind the bookshelf just in time to see five more arrows find their marks—both eyes, chest, gut, and one knee. The hezrou staggers and bellows out its fury, throwing a bolt of twisting, squirming energy blindly out the window. Another brace of five arrows make it clear that the spell (chaos hammer, most likely—a staple attack of hezrou) has failed to down the archer.

 

            In all the madness, Sherlock notes the broken glasses of wine on the floor. The contents of both glasses smoke and sizzle as they eat through the flagstones. Sherlock is glad (drinking that wouldn’t have ended pleasantly) and furious (of course they were both poisoned, a hezrou wouldn’t care about poison, her idiocy evidently knows no bounds).

 

            Five more arrows thunk into the demon; it wavers and drops to its knees. Summoning up the last of its strength, it utters something _horrible_ , something in such deep Abyssal that even Sherlock can’t translate it, and it suddenly feels as if her eyelids and her limbs and her mind are made of lead, cold terrible immovable unbendable lead. Sherlock flops to the floor, immobile and dazed.

 

            Some time later (and it’s a measure of how out of it Sherlock is that her internal clock has been thrown off), Sherlock hears the doors to the parlour open and light, quick footsteps approach. “Ruddy idiot,” says a pleasantly gruff woman’s voice, “how can someone with a brain as big as yours miss that?” Small but powerful arms tuck themselves under her and prop her against the bookshelf. The arms leave. “Gladstone. Come here, lad,” the voice says, and suddenly there’s a cold, wet nose prodding at Sherlock’s cheek. A large dog whines worriedly. “I know, lad, I know. Hold still. We need to get Clever Betsy out of here.” The same voice utters a command word and suddenly Sherlock feels much smaller (though still made of exhaustion and lead). The arms, no longer quite so small, easily haul Sherlock up into a saddle. “There we are. Off we go, lad.”

 

            The dog begins to walk, and Sherlock can only wonder where this strange, small woman with some sort of magical device and a saddled dog is taking her.

 

            ***

 

            By the time Sherlock can open her eyes and move her limbs again, she’s sprawled out on a battered leather couch and covered by a dreadful orange blanket. Rolling over, she looks around the room slowly, carefully.

 

            She’s in a parlour of some sort, one that might have been very expensive fifty or sixty years ago. The wallpapering hasn’t been changed since—that particular floral damask had gone out of style back in 4660—and the furniture appears to be around the same age. A map of Caliphas and the surrounding farmlands is pinned up on one wall; two tall, curtained windows flank a map of Ustalav and a desk covered in papers on the wall opposite.

 

           Diagrams of Human, Elven, Dwarven, Gnomish, and Halfling anatomy (all fairly similar, but just different enough that diagrams are necessary to keep all the little things straight) dominate the wall behind Sherlock’s couch. Someone has scribbled notes in the margins and blank spaces between labels—‘lock stitch lasts longest here’, ‘very small + tough, use keen 15’, and so on. A surgeon?

 

            Another look around, however, leads Sherlock to reconsider that hypothesis. Though the resident clearly has medical experience (there’s a comprehensive healer’s kit sitting open on a nearby sun-bleached armchair), the bookshelves are full of ledgers, almanacs, gazetteer clippings, scrolls, and what appear to be VIP chits from several of Caliphas’ most frequented taverns and alehouses. The door of a wooden filing cabinet sits slightly ajar; the spines of more ledgers and not a few folders are visible. Two very, very expensive locks hang from a hasp on the door of the cabinet.

           

            She’s giving the far side of the room an initial once-over when a smooth curve of pale, golden wood and charcoal-dark horn standing near a doorway catches Sherlock’s eye. She hauls herself to her feet, settles the orange blanket (hideous but very warm) around her shoulders, and pads across the room to inspect the item.

 

            On first examination, it appears to be a finely crafted, four-foot-long composite bow with a handle sized for a child’s hands, but when Sherlock picks it up and attempts to draw it, she can barely move the string eight inches, much less to a full draw. Not a weapon for a child, then, despite the size of the grip.

 

            “You’re awake,” says the gruff woman’s voice from earlier. Sherlock jumps but doesn’t quite drop the bow. She turns to get a look at her rescuer and... oh.

 

            Her rescuer, an ashy blonde woman with a weathered, handsome face, is barely three feet tall. She stands at parade rest, shoulders back and chin tipped up just the slightest bit. Her eyes, the same colour as freshly-sintered cobalt aluminate, are focussed on Sherlock with impressive intensity. Given the delicate pointing of her smallish ears, her mundane colouring, and the smooth, neatly groomed coat of ashy blonde hair covering the tops of her bare feet, an assessment of ‘Halfling’ seems like a safe one.

 

            “Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock says, offering a hand.

 

            The Halfling woman’s mouth quirks up at one corner. She takes Sherlock’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “Jonnarra Watson. Call me John.” She gives Sherlock an appraising once-over. “Is that how you get your kicks, then? Challenging members of the Countess’ inner circle to games of chicken with poisoned wine just to prove you’re clever?”

 

            “And you get yours by using demons as overlarge pincushions,” Sherlock ripostes easily. “Magnimar or Korvosa?”

 

            John blinks. “Sorry, what?”

 

            “Magnimar. Or. Korvosa?” Sherlock reiterates impatiently.

 

            John’s expression is an interesting mixture of shuttered defensiveness, surprise, and curiosity. “How... could you possibly know about that?”

 

            Sherlock laughs outright. It’s glorious, _glorious_ when they walk right into it! “Upright posture, parade rest, subconsciously positioning yourself so all exits are within your field of view, and dead-eye aim with a heavy draw longbow—military training and experience in the field, lots of it. Caliphasian and most other Ustalavi Halflings are notoriously reclusive; Varisian Halflings, on the other hand, frequently venture out into the wider world. Exquisitely crafted composite bow with a core of coastal yew—such wood is generally found on the western coast of the continent, particularly in Varisia. Your accent is Caliphasian, but ‘game of chicken’ is a Varisian Common colloquialism. Halfling, career military, Varisian equipment and speech—Magnimar or Korvosa.”

 

            Throughout the analysis, John’s jaw had alternately dropped and tightened in response, all in time with her expressive face sliding through muted variations of amazement and concentration. She gives Sherlock a long, hard look with those dark blue eyes—Sherlock braces herself for anger or offence—before slowly shaking her head. “That. Was amazing.”

 

            For once, Sherlock is the one caught off-guard. No one _ever_ says that. “Do you really think so?”

 

            John gives Sherlock a disbelieving look. “Extraordinary,” she says definitively, “that was quite extraordinary.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot and licks her lips—compulsive tic rather than deliberate expression of desire. “You’re one of those detectives with the Sleepless agency, aren’t you?”

 

            _That_ earns a derisive scoff from Sherlock. “Hardly. When they’re out of their depth—which is always—they come to me for consultation.” Though she is studying the Sleepless agency’s particular brand of forensic magic (and benefiting enormously from it), her analyses and observational faculty are all her own innate talent. Her membership is merely the Sleepless agency’s effort to keep her consultations within its ridiculous, bureaucratic guidelines.

 

            “I can see why,” John muses aloud, chuckling quietly. “So, what do people normally say?”

 

            “Piss off,” Sherlock answers.

 

            To her complete shock (and possibly delight, if the giddy, burbling sensation bubbling up beneath her sternum isn’t indigestion or a delayed reaction to the hezrou’s spell), John grins broadly and begins to giggle. For a woman as weathered and handsome she is, the mischievously girly, mirthful sound is incongruous in the best of ways. Sherlock finds herself giggling along.

 

            “A highly inappropriate reaction, given the circumstances.”

 

            The bow is torn from Sherlock’s hands as John whirls and tumbles through the kitchen doorway. She reappears shortly with two arrows nocked, drawn, and aimed squarely at the man in the doorway. “ _Who are you!?_ ” she snarls, indigo eyes and pearly white teeth flashing. Sherlock shies away a step before she can stop herself—this side of John is rather terrifying.

 

            “A concerned party,” Mycroft Holmes says disdainfully, his aristocratic features arranged in a calculated sneer. “Sherlock, I warned you to stay away from the Countess’ business.”

 

            John throws Sherlock an incredulous look. “You _know_ this berk?” she snaps across nocked arrows.

 

            Sherlock sighs and rolls her eyes. “Ah, Mycroft. Dear, darling brother.” She offers Mycroft a not-smile. “I will meddle when there is a case to be resolved. The Countess’ driver was responsible for the series of suicides-by-poison amongst visiting merchants. When the Sleepless Agency faltered, I stepped in.”

 

            “ _Brother?_ ” John echoes incredulously.

 

            “We share our dear Mummy,” Mycroft replies, unperturbed by the fact that John’s aim has not wavered. “Sherlock, you understand that the Countess will not take lightly to her favoured lieutenant being rumbled and then banished. You showed wisdom in involving one of Magnimar’s finest intelligence agents, but _banishment_? Have you lost your mind?”

 

            John growls. It’s a very large, very alarming sound coming from such a tiny person. “It’s your nobles that have lost their minds,” she snarls. “If I find a demon, I destroy it—I don’t invite it to my bed and into my nation’s governance!”

 

            Sighing, Mycroft rolls his eyes and presents John with a signet ring withdrawn from his breast pocket. “Neither do I, Captain.”

 

            John stares at the ring like she’s been dealt a gut punch. “Oh. You’re _Control_ ,” she mutters, lowering her bow and snapping to attention. “Sir.”

 

            The only thing Sherlock hates more than being ignored is being ignored whilst people discuss things she does not understand. “What do you _want_ , Mycroft?” she hisses, stalking over to John’s sofa and throwing herself down on it. Mycroft has always hated being the one who has to remain standing, particularly when it’s purely for image’s sake. She doubts he’ll break character in front of one of his subordinates. The fact that John initially had no idea as to Mycroft’s identity is the only thing that’s keeping Sherlock from storming out the flat entirely; John is just as much a victim of Mycroft’s machinations as anyone else.

 

            “I am warning you, Sherlock, that your recklessness has the Countess feeling threatened. She _will_ organise a retributive attack, meaning that your little hovel is likely already bristling with killing spells, poisons, and at least one summoning circle. Given the volume of her raging, I suspect there will be assassin-demons as well.” He heaves a longsuffering sigh. “You know I cannot oppose her without exposing too much; your only option is to flee.”

 

            Sherlock doesn’t reply. Infuriatingly, Mycroft is right—his plans aren’t in the right stage for him to be able to do anything about the Countess’ fits of pique. “Fleeing won’t necessarily sate her desire for revenge.” The Countess is known for her relentless grudges and resentments. If she’s truly as upset as Mycroft says, she may be aiming for ‘out of existence’ more than ‘out of Ustalav’.

 

            “As I am aware.” Mycroft gives John a significant look. “I understand that you are the one responsible for the driver’s banishment?”

 

            John, standing at ease in the kitchen doorway, nods once. “Yes, sir.”

 

            “Your mission in Caliphas is complete,” says Mycroft. “As of today, I will provide alternate identities for the two of you and equip you for long-distance travel. Captain Watson, you will accompany Sherlock back to headquarters in Magnimar.”

 

            Mycroft tugs his pocket square free and unfurls the silky, richly black cloth. With a brief gesture and a crisp utterance, all of John’s books, papers, ledgers, diagrams, and trinkets leap from their places, whirling like a parchment and vellum storm as they vanish into the pocket dimension’s entrance. When the last paper flutters through, Mycroft very calmly folds the cloth up again and hands it to John, who takes it with an expression somewhere between exasperation and amazement.

 

            Sherlock huffs. “Parlour tricks and a portable hole, John—nothing of any real note.” She gathers up her bag and her cloak from one of the hooks near the front door. “Are we leaving or are we leaving? Mycroft has the wherewithal to teleport materials and equipment to us even after a day’s travel; we’ll be dead before he finishes rolling back to his office, much less getting our papers in order.”

 

            John sighs. She trots into a back room and returns with a packed bag; she adds the portable hole to the load before hefting one of the straps over her shoulder. Taking up her bow and her quiver, she beckons for Sherlock to follow her. “You’re going to be a real joy to travel with, I can tell,” she says gruffly, “but you’re not even a tenth as stupid as the people I usually get saddled with. Come on, then. You need a horse.”

 

            Sherlock sticks her tongue out at Mycroft as she goes. It’s as close to a gesture of gratitude as she’ll ever get.

           


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this is late, late, late!
> 
> I am so very sorry for the wait. Student teaching is taking up a lot of my time with being in the classroom, going to staff meetings, and lesson planning. Even with a class of just nine kids, it's tons of work... the cold weather and snow isn't making things any easier, either. 
> 
> Anyway, here we are with the second chapter of this thing. Enjoy!

            John learns very quickly that Sherlock Holmes is owed many, many favours. An armourer happily parts with an intricately-jointed breastplate that looks like it might be solid mithral. A weaponsmith down the street presents her with a beautiful, lacquered cane that, when a leaf on the scrollwork of the handle is pressed, proves to be a sheath for a wickedly sharp rapier. The outfitter next door hands Sherlock a rucksack, a fine bedroll, and a waterskin. When she appears in the doorway of the Caliphas School of Alchemy, there’s a mad scramble to put together one of the most complete travelling labs John has ever seen before carefully packing it all away into yet another handy haversack and handing the lot over like eager sycophants making an offering to their god.

 

            “Are you sure you’re just a detective?” John asks jokingly, looking up at Sherlock and raising an eyebrow. “Where I’m from, the only people who get this kind of treatment are the pirate lords from Riddleport and the über-wealthy.”

 

            Sherlock twirls her swordstick jauntily and laughs. “They owed me favours.” She tosses the swordstick and catches it, presenting it to John with a flourish. “The only thing Wiggins is more skilled in than crafting weaponry is the gathering and selling of information. If it happens in Caliphas, she’s heard of it, and having my protection from false accusations designed to silence her is vital to her business.

 

            “The armourer, Angelo, was implicated in a messy triple murder; I proved he was across town housebreaking at the time of the killings. His brother is the outfitter.”

 

            John takes this all in with no small amount of amazement as she examines the swordstick’s blade. It’s finely balanced with good heft, a solid presence in her hand. She’s not very experienced with blades—bows are her area of expertise—but it’s hard to miss all of the signs of quality in the weapon in her hands. “You solved mysteries for all of those people?”

 

            Sherlock huffs. “Mysteries. You make it sound so quaint! My work is a science, John, and a very precise one at that.” She sweeps the swordstick behind John and chivvies her through the doorway of a stable with it. “My Work, John, is divining the truth from the evidence available by means of the science of observation and analysis. The art of deductive reasoning, if you will.”

 

            Honestly, John thinks it all sounds a bit high-flown and theatrical for describing detective work, but there’s no denying that Sherlock is frighteningly intelligent. Perhaps she does have parts of it honed to a science—living bodies certainly obey patterns and natural laws, so why shouldn’t behaviour or the ephemera of civilised living? “That’s all well and good within city limits,” John replies patiently, “but can you extend your ‘science of deduction’ to the world outside Caliphas’ walls?”

 

            The stable owner chooses that moment to walk in. Five minutes of talk and one mention of her name get Sherlock a huge, black and white stallion that lips and noses at her chummily. The stable owner sends two of his assistants to gather the necessary tack and oversees its application with a stern eye. Sherlock winks down at John. “Of course I can apply it elsewhere; it would not be very sound science if I couldn’t.” When the tack is all set properly, she steps up in the stirrup and swings one of her long legs over. The horse seems to sense she intends to take him out for a good walk; he dances in place, tossing his head and whickering.

 

            John steps back to avoid getting a stirrup to the face. “So you won’t be too out of your element once we leave?”

 

            “Oh, I will be,” Sherlock replies, “but I intend to adapt. Shall we go?”

 

            John nods.

 

            ***

 

            Frankly, John should have known that ‘adapt’ meant ‘stop every five minutes to inspect one thing or another’. Sherlock’s horse, Billy, seems just as exasperated after a while; John doesn’t even need to tug on his reins as she passes to get him to leave off of whatever it is Sherlock is trying to direct him to. “Sherlock, we’re _running from an angry noblewoman with demon henchmen,_ not smelling the bloody flowers!” John glances around warily, knowing that just about anything could be lurking in the trees on either side of the road. Gladstone pauses in his pacing to let her take a longer look around.

 

            Thank the gods for Gladstone.

 

            Well, Gladstone and his forebears. Her first companion, Murray, had been his great-great-grandsire.

 

            When Murray had first come pelting out of the woods thirty years ago, he’d been little more than a scrawny, runt pup, underfed and frightened of everything. John had been mortified when he’d attached himself to her like a burr—she’d been right in the middle of trying and failing to convince one of Magnimar’s finest rangers to take her on as an apprentice—but the man had taken one look at the little pup and changed his mind immediately. She hadn’t understood his reasoning until she realised that Gladstone was learning and growing _with_ her in a way that wasn’t typical for an animal.

 

            Two years of apprenticeship and nine of service with Magnimar’s military (six of those spent as a steed as well as a friend and ally) later, Murray passed in his sleep after a long, quiet, sunny summer day at John’s side. John had visited his mate and her litter of five-week-old pups the very next day, and so Stamford stumbled his way into her lap.

 

            After five years of active service, Gladstone, son of Sarah, daughter of Stamford, son of Murray, is well accustomed to accompanying caravans and people of interest. He needs no directions to know John wants him to pace around, ahead, and then back behind Sherlock and Billy, giving John a good sense of their surroundings. He ignores John’s bow and the nocked arrow; they’ve seen enough combat together that he trusts John utterly with whatever weaponry she chooses to wield. Ears pricked and tongue lolling, he’s the picture of wolfish contentment on the road.

 

            “But this species is highly toxic, John!” Sherlock protests, waving a gloved hand full of a plant with huge, pale purple flowers in John’s direction. She looks a bit like a child in a sweet shop, all lit up and excited.

 

            John nudges Gladstone’s side with one knee; he paces back to Sherlock and Billy. “Sherlock Holmes, if you poison yourself with that, Control is going to draw and quarter me.”

 

            Sherlock crams the blossoms into an open jar, peels off the glove, and stuffs it into the jar as well. She screws the lid on tightly and tucks it away into her bag. The smile she aims at John is _radiant_ ; John’s breath catches in her chest. “That would be a shame, John! You're not as boring as most. As such, I hope you’ll forgive me my foibles; I haven't had the opportunity to do my own fieldwork for some time.” She nudges Billy ahead.

 

            Gladstone looks back at John, as if to ask ‘are you all right?’

 

            John lets out a long, calming exhalation and thanks the gods that the nut-brown tan from her stint in Osirion has been so stubborn—it’ll keep the blush staining her cheeks from being quite so obvious.

 

            Control will draw and quarter her if Sherlock manages to poison herself, but she _really_ doesn’t want to consider the consequences of lusting after his little sister.

 

            “John!” Sherlock hisses from ahead. Gladstone whips his head around and breaks into a brisk canter without John’s instruction. He draws even with Billy, then pads over to Sherlock. The half-elf is kneeling on the side of the road, dipping slender fingertips into the dirt. “John, this is an ogre’s footprint.”

 

            That gets John out of the saddle very quickly indeed. Kneeling next to Sherlock, she carefully examines the print and the soil around it. “This is fresh,” she growls, standing and nocking her readied arrow.

 

            Sherlock doesn’t stand, but she does scan the surroundings. “There,” she half-whispers, pointing down and into the trees on the southerly side of the road. It takes John a moment to see it, but a careless movement by the ogre gives its position away. It’s about two hundred feet away, standing partly behind a beech that’s too small to hide its bulk. It appears to be waiting for some unsuspecting traveller to pass by. “Another one directly behind it, and a third across the road,” Sherlock adds, pointing each one out. “It’s possible that there are others.”

 

            John nods. She uncaps her hip quiver, draws and nocks a second arrow. “Best to start things on our own terms, then.” She hurries down the grassy roadside to the treeline, beckoning for Sherlock to follow with Billy. As soon as Sherlock has Billy’s flanks covered with her olive bedroll, John stands on the edge of the wood and gauges her shots. “Sherlock. Are you prepared for combat?”

 

            Sherlock kneels next to John—John briefly considers the strangeness of being eye-to-eye with a half-elf—and holds up a hand. She mutters a few words in a language John doesn’t recognise; something in the air around them both shivers and shimmers. “Mage’s armour,” Sherlock says tersely as she unsheathes her swordstick. “We’re ready now.”

 

            Without further ado, John calls Gladstone to her, swings astride him, raises her bow, and lets fly with a volley of five arrows. Two slam into the beech’s trunk, but the ogre takes three, one of which finds its mark in the back of the ogre’s skull. John faintly hears a gurgling groan as the ogre collapses; its fellows hoot and grunt in alarm as they scramble over to investigate.

 

            Before John can nock the twin opening arrows of a second volley, the brush across the road from the fallen ogre thrashes and a whole troop of the hulking, toothy creatures shambles out of the wood. They join their two remaining fellows in investigating the dead one as a last, enormous ogre emerges from the forest; this one is covered in crude iron plate and carries a longish chunk of metal that appears to be intended for use as a sword.

 

            The huge ogre turns and stares down the road. It grunts something to its friends, then begins to stride down the road—it hasn’t spotted John or Sherlock yet, but if it gets any closer, the chances of that happening go up considerably. John draws a single arrow and nocks it, pulling the bowstring back and carefully, carefully lining up her shot. “If this doesn’t kill it on the spot, Sherlock, I want you to hide and to stay hidden, do I make myself clear?”

 

            Sherlock snorts. “I’d rather not, thanks. You’ll need me if they close.”

 

            “I need you alive, not bashed to a bloody pulp!” John snaps. She lines up her shot one last time and releases the bowstring; the arrow flies true, but the ogre moves and takes the bolt to the shoulder joint of its sword arm rather than the gap over its heart in its makeshift breastplate. John curses roundly as the ogre immediately zeroes in on John and Sherlock in their half-arsed hiding place. It screams; all seven of its underlings shriek in response.

 

            Working frantically, John unloads arrow after arrow into the oncoming ogres. She manages to drop two more of the subordinates, but the rest close the distance enough that she’s forced to drop her bow, grab her axe, and spur Gladstone ahead to intercept the ogres before they get to Sherlock.

 

            The first blow from the bull ogre feels like it sets John’s very teeth rattling in her skull, but her military-issue bracers hold up under the off-hand strike and deflect the scrap-metal greatsword. She swings in with the axe as Gladstone darts in with teeth flashing, the blade biting deep into the ogre’s right flank and Gladstone’s jaws clamping down on either side of its kneecap like a vise.

 

            The other ogres waste no time crowding around the Halfling and her wolf. Heavy wooden clubs and rusty iron morningstars whistle through the air, crashing against the invisible barrier of the mage’s armour. John manages to land another solid hit on the bull ogre before the mob finds a chink in the armour spell, but when the blow comes, it _comes_. A club slams into her right side with an ugly crunch and throws her from the saddle; pain explodes in her side and her head when she hits the ground.

 

            The next few moments are a bit of a blur. John is doing her damnedest to get to her feet, but she’s dizzy and half-stunned from hitting her head, and _Iomedae’s tits_ there is something purple and fast, and—

 

            “John! Stay down!” Sherlock snarls, sheathing her rapier in the chest of one of the ogres. It drops when she withdraws the blade. “Go after their ankles!”

 

            John is going to have a very serious talk with Sherlock about telling the little person to attack people’s ankles after all this, nevermind the fact that it’s a sound idea. She snatches up her axe and slams the blade into the nearest ogre foot.

 

            Between the two of them, Sherlock and John manage to push the ogres back enough that John is able to stagger to her feet. Even with only five ogres left, though, the fight is going to be longer than either of them has the energy to handle, especially with the bull ogre still in the mix. Gladstone’s bite to his knee has slowed him, but the bull has worked himself into a fury—the injury is a mere inconvenience, not an obstacle. After seeing Sherlock punch a hole through their friend, the other ogres work to avoid her, but they stay close enough that running isn’t a viable option.

 

            “Your brother is going to resurrect me and then kill me again,” John calls. Sherlock rolls her eyes and sticks an ogre in the arm when it gets too close. “I hope he gives them a one-way trip to the Abyss when he catches up to us!”

 

            “Don’t count on tha—”

 

            _Light_ explodes over them as the bull ogre crumples like paper, a gold-and-steel sledgehammer firmly embedded where its head had been. For several seconds, everything halts—the remaining four ogres stare slack-jawed at the remains of their leader and Sherlock and John gape at the figure in gleaming, etched steel fullplate that’s already lifting the hammer away for another strike.

 

            John shakes her head and takes the opportunity to bury her axe in the thigh of the nearest ogre.

 

            The fight begins anew, but the tempo and momentum have changed drastically with the steel knight’s entry. Even though the next strike of the hammer doesn’t create another blast of light, it brings the stricken ogre to its knees, where its head is just within John and Gladstone’s reach. Sherlock finds openings to slip her blade into joints with surgical precision, putting more targets into John’s range as ogres clutch at failing knees.

 

            When the last ogre is silenced, the steel knight lowers his sledgehammer to the ground; every square inch of the head but a shining, gold-plated symbol of a key is spattered with gore. Noting the golden key, John observes the knight’s armour more closely and sees that every plate is lovingly, painstakingly etched with cityscapes, scenes of commerce, and images evoking civil courtrooms and places of justice. When John sees the key motif repeated in every image, she knows. “Justiciar,” she says, offering a shallow bow.

 

            The justiciar returns the gesture, only to be casually buffeted aside as Sherlock shoos him away from the body of the bull ogre.

 

            John frowns. “Sherlock, what the hell? Is something wrong?”

 

            Sherlock is tugging at the corpse, struggling with the weight. She manages to overturn it, however, and tears the crude, scrap-iron armour away from its body. She stands, pointing down at the creature’s abdomen. “That, John, is what’s wrong.”

 

            The ogre’s belly is riddled with vicious, ugly scars; to John’s trained eye, however, they’re entirely wrong. Rather than looking as if something huge had nearly disemboweled the ogre, the scars are more consistent with something clawed and vicious bursting _outward_ from the ogre’s gut.

 

            “Ruddy hell _,_ ” the justiciar groans. “As if Ustalav hasn’t got enough problems already.”

 

            “What?” John asks. The scars are strange, but what significance could they possibly have?

 

            The justiciar tugs his helmet off; rummaging through a belt pouch, he comes up with a vial. When he pours the contents over the scarring, the clear liquid hisses and spits, the skin underneath it bubbling sickeningly. “That’s a bona fide mark of Lamashtu, old Grandmother Nightmare herself,” the justiciar says, dark eyes serious and the set of his jaw grim. His silver hair glints in the sunlight as he shakes his head slowly. “Abadar help us—if she’s confident enough to mark the local ogres, there’s more trouble in Caliphas than any of us thought.”

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, ya got trouble, folks! Right here in Caliphas City. Trouble with a capital "T" and that rhymes with "D" and that stands for demon!
> 
> Hopefully chapter three will not take quite so long as chapter two did. No promises, however-- student teaching (and my undergraduate degree) come first.


End file.
